Chase Family Collection: Limited Christmas Edition

by Lauren Royal

  He wanted to see the place, see how she was living. Whether she and her baby were healthy. Whether she and her pawnbroker were happy. They’d be happy after he gave them her dowry, of course, but he hoped they were happy now without it. That his sister hadn’t made a mistake marrying for love.

  Before he turned over all that money, he needed to see Ellen’s happiness with his own eyes. He was not taking no for an answer.

  “I’ll go up,” he repeated. “You can show me the way or I’ll find it myself.”

  “Very well.” Thomas handed a key to the young man behind the counter, then Kit followed him through a storage room and up a narrow staircase.

  When Thomas opened the door, Kit sniffed appreciatively. “Smells like apples.”

  “The only thing your sister knows how to cook is apple fritters,” Thomas said with a wry quirk of his lips. “I’ve been eating them till they’re coming out of my ears.”

  Kit looked at him sharply, but the words had been said in good humor. It seemed the man loved Ellen whether she could cook or not.

  The living quarters were nicer than he’d expected. The main room was small and the floor was bare wood, but it was polished and everything was clean. There was plenty of fine furniture and, in Kit’s opinion, entirely too many knickknacks—all of which he suspected came from the shop. He guessed that some of the best merchandise found its way upstairs. A hidden benefit to this business.

  And Ellen doubtless loved all the knickknacks. In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised to find she’d dragged most of them up here herself. His heart lifted to think she was probably very happy here, indeed.

  “Where is she?” he asked.

  “In the bedchamber. She naps often these days.”

  A subtle reminder of his sister’s condition. Kit nodded. “Will you wake her or shall I?”

  He saw the other man draw a steadying breath. “Wait here.” Thomas opened a door and slid into the room beyond, closing it firmly behind him.

  Kit paced while he waited, peeking into another chamber to find a kitchen with a small fireplace and a scrubbed table for eating.

  That seemed to be it—just the main room, kitchen, and bedchamber. He wondered where the babe would sleep, though he knew full well that entire families lived in single-room homes—why, this place would be a palace to the common cottager. Hell, he and Ellen had lived like that until the Great Plague had claimed their parents.

  But when he built the new shop for his sister in London, he would design it with much larger living quarters attached. A proper house.

  The bedchamber door opened and shut again, startling him. “She won’t see you,” Thomas said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Ellen doesn’t wish to speak with you, Mr. Martyn.”

  Fuming, Kit didn’t bother correcting Thomas’s use of his name again. “She doesn’t have a choice.”

  He crossed the room—in all of three strides—and threw open the bedchamber door. “Ellen.”

  She lay on a huge four-poster bed—much too big for the room—with her back to him.

  “Ellen.” He sighed. “I don’t wish to play games.”

  She rolled over and stared at him with those eyes that were so like his. Her pretty mouth was thinned into a straight, forbidding line.

  She said nothing.

  “It’s a nice home,” he conceded, feeling like an idiot talking to himself. “I hope you’re happy here.”

  Nothing.

  A heavy silence hung for a moment before Kit’s frustration gave way to anger. “This is about the money, isn’t it?”

  Not a word. Not even a blink. It was as though she stared right through him, as though he weren’t even there.

  His heart fisted in his chest as the anger turned to hurt. He swallowed hard. “When you’re ready to talk, Ellen, you know where to find me.”

  Without another word, he turned and left. He’d be damned if he’d give Ellen a fortune when she wouldn’t speak to him. Never mind that he hadn’t planned to withhold it past the first week or two as a test—he wouldn’t buy his sister’s love.

  Every penny of that dowry had been saved out of his love for her, but apparently she couldn’t see that.

  Thomas followed him down the stairs and all the way to the entrance. “She’ll come around, sir. I’m sure of it.”

  Kit opened the door but stopped short of stepping outside. “How is she?” he asked toward the street.

  “She’s well. We’re happy together, sir.”

  “Kit.”

  “Kit. I know how lucky I am to have married your sister. I’m going to take care of her.”

  “See that you do,” Kit said, then slowly turned. He measured the man a long moment before he decided he trusted him.

  Or maybe that he had no choice.

  “Tell her I love her,” he said quietly, then pushed out into the cool October air, the bell jingling too merrily as the door shut behind him.

  Fifty-Eight

  STANDING IN the old village church, Rose shifted on her high-heeled shoes, watching another wedding.

  The third one this year.

  “Edmund Richard Henry, Viscount Grenville, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

  “I will.” The confident words boomed through the ancient stone sanctuary, binding Lord Grenville to Judith.

  But Rose wasn’t listening to the ceremony. Instead she was noticing how joyful the bride looked. Judith clutched the flowers Rose had arranged for her, a smile curving her lips, her body ranged close to Lord Grenville’s. A good man, Judith had described him. Decent.

  Rose’s mother sighed happily, delighted that this introduction had worked well enough to culminate in marriage. The Big Book of Weddings Arranged by Chrystabel was getting thicker. She leaned close, bumping against Rose’s left side. “They’re perfect together, aren’t they?” she whispered.

  Rose could only nod dumbly, wondering if she’d ever find anyone perfect. These two were so clearly in love, Rose knew they belonged together. But she imagined herself standing in Judith’s place and the Duke of Bridgewater standing in Grenville’s…and she knew she wouldn’t be as happy.

  Was Gabriel decent? She didn’t know. In truth, she didn’t know him at all. And she’d tried, hadn’t she? He was handsome and kind and generous, but he didn’t seem a man who cared to be known.

  And he’d kept money that belonged to someone else.

  The priest cleared his throat and looked back down at his Book of Common Prayer. “Lady Judith Carrington, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband…”

  Standing on Rose’s right, Violet leaned closer to Ford and wrapped an arm about his waist. Ford was decent, too, Rose thought, watching him squeeze her sister around the shoulders. His first love used to be science, but when he found Violet—and responsibilities—he hadn’t hesitated to put them first.

  Sun streamed through the stained glass windows, glinting off Violet’s spectacles. “Oh, isn’t this romantic?” she sighed.

  “It is,” Rose whispered to no one in particular, remembering Ellen’s wedding, which hadn’t been romantic at all. Yet Ellen had been just as thrilled to marry her love as Judith was today. Ellen’s dowry could have bought her a titled man, but she’d wed a pawnbroker instead. Her Thomas was decent. He’d wanted Ellen even though she hadn’t come with the money they’d expected.

  Lily’s husband, Rand, was decent as well. He’d worked hard to become an Oxford professor, but he’d been willing to give that up when other duties were thrust upon him. After falling hard for Lily, he’d even agreed to marry another woman in order to save a man’s life.

  Thank God that hadn’t been necessary.

  Lily poked Rose from behind. “Your wedding will be next,” she whispered.

  Rose hoped so. But first she’d have to f
ind a man who would make her as happy as her sisters and Ellen and Judith. A decent man, a man she could admire.

  Gabriel wasn’t that man. She’d tried her best to fall in love with him, but it hadn’t happened. She would have to keep looking. She couldn’t face court again soon, but she would ask Mum to take her to the queen’s birthday celebration at Whitehall next month.

  “…so long as ye both shall live?” the priest concluded expectantly.

  “I will,” Judith pledged, her voice clear and true. So clear and true that no one in the church had any doubt she meant that pledge with all her heart.

  A few more words, a new sapphire ring slid onto Judith’s finger, and she was clearly and truly wed now, the new Lady Grenville.

  And watching that, Rose knew she wouldn’t wed until she found a love as decent and true.

  When Lord Grenville lowered his lips to meet Judith’s, Rose smiled through a sudden film of tears. She wasn’t sure whether they were happy or sad tears…perhaps they were a little of both.

  Fifty-Nine

  MANY HOURS later, Chrystabel sighed happily as she closed her bedchamber door. “Another wedding.”

  Her husband wrapped her in his arms. “Another wedding night.” He kissed her thoroughly before his hands went to detach the stomacher that covered her laces. “Will we be celebrating Rose’s wedding soon?”

  “I wish I knew.” The familiar fire burning in her already, she hurried to help him out of his surcoat and the long waistcoat underneath, then tugged at the knot in his cravat. “I’m fairly certain she won’t be accepting Bridgewater, but that doesn’t mean she’ll end up with Kit.”

  Having managed to unlace her gown, Joseph slipped it off her shoulders and down to pool at her feet. “You sound worried, my love,” he murmured against her throat. He placed damp little kisses beneath her chin while his hands skimmed her diaphanous chemise, working the hem up ever higher.

  “Our Rose is stubborn,” she breathed, her blood racing while her practiced fingers unlaced his breeches. She pulled away long enough to tug his shirt off over his head, sighing as she ran her palms down his chest, hard and muscled from countless hours spent in his gardens.

  He whisked off her chemise and stepped out of his breeches, and they fell together onto their bed, blissfully skin to skin. She wiggled closer, and he smoothed a hand over one bare hip. A heated tremor rippled through her as he met her mouth for a long, hot kiss.

  She would never tire of this—never. Of course, she and Joseph were only forty-five and forty-six, not yet old and gray, but she planned on lying with him until her bones creaked—and then some.

  Drawing back, he skimmed one long brown curl off her face. “What will you do next to push Rose and Kit together?”

  “Nothing.” The fire on the hearth threw his face into shadows and radiated heat onto their naked skin. She traced his beloved mouth with a finger. “I’ve done what I can. The rest is up to them. But with any luck, we’ll have another wedding night before too very long.”

  “Ah, Chrysanthemum.” He claimed her lips once again while his hands went to work below, making her head spin with delight. “You know we’ve no need of a wedding to have a wedding night.”

  Sixty

  JUDITH’S WEDDING celebration had lasted through the wee hours, and Rose had stayed till the end. The sun was high in the sky by the time she awakened the next day, hearing strange noises beneath her window.

  Bangs and scrapes and shouts.

  Construction.

  Kit.

  She rang for her maid. “Hurry,” she said when Harriet arrived. “The purple gown—no, the burgundy brocade.” The maid pulled it from the wardrobe and helped her wiggle into it. “Hurry.”

  “I’m going as fast as I can, milady.” She laced Rose up the back.

  “Tighter.” Rose wanted to look her best.

  Harriet pushed her onto a chair and began combing through her tangled curls. “Whyever are you in such a rush?”

  Rose gulped down some chocolate and nibbled on some bread. “I’d forgotten that today is the groundbreaking.”

  “I see.” The maid twisted up the back of her hair. “I expect you’re more interested in the builder than the building, hmm?”

  Rose didn’t care for the sound of that hmm. “Mr. Martyn is just a friend. After the lunacy of court life, I simply crave a sane conversation.” Kit had always been easy to talk to.

  Harriet met her gaze in the mirror. “Hmm,” she said again.

  “How is your love life?” Rose asked to distract her.

  The maid’s freckled face lit with a smile as she chose a burgundy ribbon. “Walter has said he will visit. I believe he will ask for my hand.”

  It was on the tip of Rose’s tongue to protest, to tell Harriet she had no business getting married when she needed her. But she was feeling expansive this morning. “Where will you live?” she asked instead.

  “We haven’t yet decided. And I don’t really care. Does it matter, so long as you’re together with the one you love?”

  Rose’s ebullient mood plunged. Even Harriet was in love.

  Love, love, love. All around her, people were in love. In that way, it had been easier to be at court. At least there she wasn’t constantly reminded just how lacking she was in love. At court, lust ruled the day—no one else at court seemed to be in love, either.

  Except maybe Nell Gwyn. And Charles’s poor, long-suffering queen.

  “Are you finished?” she asked.

  “One moment.” Harriet tied the ribbon and stepped back. “You look lovely, milady.”

  “Thank you.” Rose darkened her lashes with the burnt end of a cork and slicked on some lip gloss from a little pot. She considered a patch or two, but hadn’t the patience. In no time at all, she was downstairs, out the door, and hurrying through her father’s gardens.

  On impulse she paused to pluck a few colorful blooms, gathering them into a makeshift bouquet. Still arranging them, she rounded the corner of the house.

  And there was Kit.

  Was there anything quite so masculine as a man in charge, giving orders? The greenhouse site looked chaotic, but somehow, at the same time, Kit seemed to have everything under control.

  The air smelled of newly turned earth and freshly cut wood. Kit’s raven hair glinted in the sunshine, and a metal T-square flashed as he used it to point here and direct someone there. He’d spread plans on an improvised table balanced across two sawhorses, and he kept looking down at them and back up.

  She positioned herself in front of the table, so the next time he looked up, he’d see her.

  “Rose,” he said briskly, then looked back down.

  “Kit?”

  “Hmm?”

  She shifted uneasily, stepping closer. “Aren’t you going to ask me if I want a kiss?” she said, trying to tease one of those glorious smiles from him.

  “No.” He waved at a man pushing a wheelbarrow full of bricks. “Over there,” he directed, pointing with the T-square. Once again, he consulted his plans. “And you’ve no need to worry,” he added toward the neatly inked lines. “I’m not going to ask you to marry me again, either.”

  She should be relieved, but she wasn’t. Something was wrong. She held out the bouquet. “I brought these for you.”

  “What for?”

  “I’m hoping to celebrate you winning the Deputy Surveyor post.”

  He finally met her gaze. “I lost it.”

  “Oh, Kit.” The flowers fell to the ground as she moved around the table to lay a hand on his arm. “Tell me.”

  “There was a problem at Hampton Court.” He glanced down at her fingers, then scanned the bustle of construction and sighed, setting down the T-square. “Wait here a moment.”

  Rose watched him cross the site, looking confident as ever as he consulted with a short, hook-nosed man. Kit gestured with his competent, callused hands, and she wondered when she’d come to prefer them over the smooth, elegant hands of the aristocracy. He ran one of them thr
ough his dark hair, and she wondered when she’d come to prefer bold coloring over the pale English ideal.

  When he returned, he led her around the house toward the gardens. “It was structural,” he admitted flatly. Their shoes crunched on the gravel path. “I ordered the building torn down. It was destined to eventually collapse.”

  “You could have been killed!” She put her hand to her racing heart, staring at his profile as they walked, imagining her life without him and suddenly realizing it would seem empty.

  When had their friendship come to mean that much to her?

  But the gaze he turned on her was sad, not alarmed. “I was never personally in danger.” He stopped beneath the huge tree her father called his twenty-guinea oak. “I’ll still build it,” he said with a half-hearted shrug that didn’t fool her. He was more upset than he was willing to admit. “But I’ll do it right. And there’s no rush anymore, since I’ve no chance to make Charles’s tight deadline.”

  “And that’s why you lost the appointment?”

  He didn’t have to answer. His hand slipped into his pocket to grip that little piece of his first building—that tiny symbol of his past success—and in the dappled light beneath the tree, his expression said it all.

  Her heart broke for him. “I know how much you wanted that post.”

  “I wanted the knighthood that went with it. I was hoping…” He sighed. “Never mind.” Looking more defeated than she’d ever seen him, he dropped to sit on the grass, his back against the massive trunk. “It was my fault,” he said resolutely, and then almost in a whisper, “but it may not have been my mistake.”

  She sat across from him, carefully settling her skirts. “What do you mean?”

  “Do you remember me mentioning the set of plans at Hampton Court didn’t match the ones I kept with me? It could have been my error reproducing them, but—”

  “Someone could have made changes,” she finished for him. “Harold Washburn?”